The Frankenstein Effect
by Etimire T
Summary: Officially, the entire experiment was called The Frankenstein Effect. I chose the name John Watson after I ran away because I knew it would have irritated Sherlock. No experiment of his would be named so... ordinarily.


**The Frankenstein Effect**

 **By Etimire T.**

It's a hard thing, looking at your creator and knowing that he is fallible. He's just a man playing God. He's selfish and needing. Human. You envy everyone else because at least they have the confidence that their Creator doesn't make mistakes.

No, I don't get that assurance. I'm instead assured that I am indeed a mistake if his expression was anything to go by. I don't blame him; Sherlock Holmes would do anything for the sake of science. But the result of this ultimate experiment (me) is a lifetime of guilt because the man seemed to have grown a semblance of a conscience. And that wasn't worth the scientific advancement.

I don't know what he did to make it happen, whatever 'it' is. I don't know how he got tissue and bone to breath and think. Hate and love. Grow. Hurt. And not just physically. I don't think I _want_ to know. I'm already a mental case as it is. If my testament means anything, Sherlock succeeded much farther than he imagined he ever would. He looked at me with a sort of softness in his eyes that was unexplainable. He'd then proceed to complain about my lack of intellect, but he never meant it. And I suppose that scared him. If Sherlock is anything, he's meticulous. He likes everything to be planned and to work out exactly the way he wants it to. But I was more than he planned. Now he looked at me and I wasn't his experiment anymore. I was his friend. He was mine.

He didn't know what to do and so he did the only thing he'd ever done. He pushed away.

"Get out."

"Where?"

"Do you think I care?" His words were like razor blades, sharp and quick and scathing, unrepentant. It hid the underlying layer of pain quite efficiently.

I remember staring at him. Daring to hope he'd back down, throw his hands in the air and tell me to stay with Mycroft so that he could drug himself into oblivion. He'd done it before when I was a child, and he could convince himself I wasn't a 'real' person he'd manipulated. I wasn't _real_ cells mutated and reformed. What did it matter if he sped up my growth hormones so that my childhood lasted three years? I wasn't real.

Honestly. I'd have preferred that to this situation.

But he was stoic.

Anger surged through me like fire. I opened my mouth to shout at him, but no sound came from my throat. I had nothing to say. I couldn't _make_ him want me. I stabbed a finger into his chest instead, and Sherlock stared into my eyes like a dead thing.

What a rubbish excuse of a human, I remember thinking.

I left. I tore out. I ran. I stormed and boiled and broke my knuckles on an offending glass window.

Fine. I'd leave the idiot of a genius to rot in his own delusions. I didn't need him. He didn't want me. Whatever. I didn't want him. I was quite good at lying to myself, it seemed, because I thoroughly believed the thoughts I made myself think. I nursed the ache that came from missing my friend, and pretended that it wasn't loneliness. No, it was anger. It had to be.

After I left, I joined the military. I was fully educated, and although I'd only watched the world through spyglass, I was smart enough to act like I knew what I was doing. It constantly irritated me, the things Sherlock had neglected to teach. (how to order coffee, shake hands, catch a taxi, etc.)

I learned it all on my own.

And I did a ruddy good job of it.

The military was easy. It took my mind off of the ever-present ich pointing me toward Sherlock. I trained and learned and obeyed, and I was good at it. They marveled, and I thought that their marvel was what I needed. I could survive on that occasional approval because, frankly, I had to. I didn't need _him._ I could do this on my own and I would. I would live without the prat.

A prat who hadn't bothered to give me a proper name. "Kid," he'd call me. But I wasn't a 'kid'. Not anymore. And I certainly wasn't Sherlock's.

I chose the name John Watson because I knew it would have irritated him. No experiment of his would be named so… _ordinarily_.

But I didn't mind the ordinary. I thrived on it.

If I was left to my thoughts for too long, my mind derailed, and I found myself shivering in my bunk. I hoped to God (actual God) that I wasn't automatically condemned because of Sherlock. Would I go _anywhere_ when I died?

I didn't know if I had a soul in the first place. Sherlock insisted I didn't; no one did. He told me that God was a fictitious figure; someone idiots devoted thought to. And yet, there Sherlock was, trying to compete with Him. And I've never seen someone fight so devotedly with someone who didn't exist.

I'd shift and tumble in thoughts like this for hours. The order and discipline of the military gave me my only relief. I didn't have to think. Just breath, shout, drill, march.

I knew quite a bit about human biology. Sherlock spent hours educating me. He wanted to see how quickly I could absorb information. Apparently quite fast. I remember a distinctly stunned look in his strangely colored eyes when I repeated a three-minute long monolog right back at him. Then he snapped back to himself and nodded formally.

It became quickly apparent to my commanding officers that I had a knack in the medical field. A quick message to Mycroft and I had all appropriate forms in my hand.

I signed on to be a doctor. I healed people and I did it properly. It felt good to take care of someone instead of being the one in question. For the first time, I really felt that I was useful. Some of my fellow soldiers would smile at me, slap me on the back. "You did good work in there, you did."

If I did it because I felt I needed to make up for Sherlock's mistakes, I didn't know. But there was a sense of purpose that I had never had before and I wasn't about to give it up.

But of course, good things never fail to fall away. I got shot trying to decide if that man in the gutter was dead or unconscious.

He was dead. I didn't know him.

And then fire ripped through my arm, and I went down with a scream. My hand clenched over the wound, and my fellow soldiers gathered around me in a warbling group. I didn't want to look down at the wound. I didn't want anyone to see it because I was half terrified of what was inside of me. What horrors had Holmes concocted? Was I part machine? Did metal run through my veins? I didn't know, but I expected so.

When I finally pried my fingers away, I was shocked to find a wound ugly and red and very typical of a gunshot. Normal. There was no yellow ooze or something of the like. I was just as real on the inside as on the outside. How on Earth did he do that?

If I'd been in a better state of mind, I might have suspected the truth right then, but blood loss addled my thoughts, and I fell unconscious.

I was sent back to London shortly after with a limp and a tremor and a therapist. I hated it. Without the constant pressure, the wonderful distraction of war, I had time to think. To wonder. To wish. My poor therapist had no idea what she stumbled in upon.

It didn't help that _he_ was just around the corner. I couldn't stop myself and after several weeks of resisting, I ended up looked him up on the internet. Sherlock had insanely dull website. How ironic of someone who bored so quickly. I glanced through his essays on Ash and finally found what I hoped I wouldn't find.

An address. Right there in the corner. He moved from the place I remembered living in, which is why I needed to search for his new home. Conflicted, I closed my laptop with a snap and pursed my lips.

 _No, John. You can't do it._

221B Bakers Street. I'd be back by midnight.

I stood, leaning on that ruddy cane. "Back by twelve," I whispered to myself. "Won't even know I was there."

And so that's how I found myself leaning against a wall across the street from a sandwich shop on Bakers Street. The lamps cast a dull, muddy light onto the street, and I avoided the illumination. I stared into one of the second story windows and squinted. The window was empty

Suddenly I shook my head and let my gaze fall to the floor. This was stupid. I didn't even know if he lived in the flat with that window. I wouldn't see him. I didn't _want_ to see him. But… why was I here then?

He wasn't my friend anymore. He was a traitor. Never mind that every night I remembered him attempting to make tea, _I hope you appreciate it. I had to wash a mug, Kid,_ drawing on the ceiling of my bedroom, laying upside down on the couch just because he wanted to. I didn't miss any of that. He was an obnoxious maniac. He'd steal my socks for experiments, babble on about something he was sure would entertain me (even if it didn't).

Nope.

Dang it.

With a drawn out sigh, I turned, leaning on the cane and not ready to leave. But I couldn't stay here. I was about to walk away when I glimmer caught my eye. I looked back and to my shock, where the window had once been empty, stood dark form, silhouetted by the light inside.

He stood absolutely still, like a statue, and I did the same. Did he see me? No, he couldn't see me. but if he could then-?

Suddenly the curtain fell back into place, and my hopes fell with it. He didn't see me.

Or he did and didn't care.

I spun away angrily and clenched my cane in my fist. My footsteps barely hit the concrete when I heard a door slam behind me. This time I didn't freeze. I swiveled slowly and my heart thumped like a deranged rabbit.

There he was. Thinner, smaller almost, but not in a way I could identify. His dark hair curled across his scalp and his skin was as pale as a corpse. Eyes wide enough to see from across the street. Shirt untucked. No coat. Barely thrown on shoes.

Dear God, was he scared? He sure looked it.

And all at once, so was I. He took a small, half-step toward me and my breath hitched. No. I couldn't do this. I couldn't look at him looking at me.

So I ran. My cane clattered to the floor, and I tore off as fast as I could.

His voice was loud and spiked behind me. "Wait!" I didn't wait.

" _Wait_!"

His footsteps thudded behind me, and I picked up my pace. What the heck was he running after me for? That thought alone was enough to make me stumble in my race, and suddenly a shot of pain flew through my leg. I hissed and stumbled and caught myself against a wall.

I should never have done this. Never ever in all of-

"Please." The word was a breathless gasp. He was right behind me now, jogging, slowing, stopped. Close enough that he could keep up if I took off, but far enough away that I wasn't crowded.

Grunting, I turned, keeping my face entirely blank. He flinched when I met his eyes and dropped his gaze to the floor immediately.

"Coward," I whispered.

I expected that would rile him up. The man I knew would have been at arms in a second.

But this Sherlock said nothing. There was no reaction except for a small pursing of his lips. He continued to look at my shoes, clenching and unclenching his right fist. For a long moment neither of us moved, but then Sherlock drew in a deep breath and locked his eyes with mine once more. "Kid," he breathed. It was like a prayer. A wish. A plea.

I hardened. "John."

"What?"

"My name. It's John."

Sherlock's eyes went through several layers of emotions, each one quickly hidden behind another. If this had been before, he would have rolled his eyes at my name choice. He didn't. Why was he so different? I saw it now, once I started looking. The way he held himself. The way he walked. The way his eyes darted. Foreign.

"John…" Sherlock tried the name on his tongue, tasting it carefully. He didn't appear to dislike the taste. In a half-whisper. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

I wasn't surprised he knew I joined the military. He was a genius. I expected no less. "Afghanistan."

"And… you were hurt?"

"Got shot."

Sherlock's gaze wobbled once more. "Kid- I mean, John."

"What?"

"I-" he stuttered, fumbling. His hand shook slightly as he ran it through his curls. His tremor sent a shiver through me as well. So this is what Sherlock looked like when he was afraid. I'd never seen him so affected. Why was he scared? I wanted to ask him. I didn't because every thought about everything else fell into the background at his words.

"John, I lied to you," he whispered. "I've been… waiting, hoping you'd come back because I realize now. I realize I should never have -"

"What, Sherlock?" I spat. "You should never have _what_?"

My words were like a slap. He cringed and pulled back a step. "Deceived you. I should have never deceived you."

I blinked. "Deceived me?" _How_?

"You're just a man, John. Like me. I wanted..." He stuttered and stalled like a broken car once more. "I wanted to be something more. I wanted _you_ to be something more. You were just _there_ , on the side of the road."

My brain pulled to a complete stop. I stared uncomprehendingly at him. "What?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I have to tell you now because you'll probably never want to see me again."

"Tell me what?"

"I'm not God, Kid."

"Tell me about it."

For a moment, my chip of humor brought light to his eyes. But his next words dashed the light. "I can't create life," he whispered. "I didn't make you. I manipulated you." He's whole skinny form shook now. "I thought it would put you beyond morality, to believe you weren't human. It would strengthen you. I thought I could…" He hissed through his teeth. "I don't know what I thought. I was obsessed." _I was alone and powerless_ went unsaid. I heard it anyhow. "But I should have never… never done this. I've ruined you, Kid. I'm sorry."

I think I was in shock because I should have been panicking, hyperventilating, screaming. I just stared, completely still. _I'm a real boy;_ my thoughts played in a cartoon's voice. Sherlock didn't create me. I wasn't a monster. I was normal. I was regular human raised by a sociopathic scientist with access to growth hormones and a massive intellect. That was it.

"What?" I finally gasped. And then I held up a hand quickly. No. I'd heard him just fine. He didn't need to explain again.

At the moment I couldn't decide if I was disgusted by Sherlock's manipulation, or relieved that that was all it was. I was mostly numb. So I turned from inside myself to look at Sherlock, my ex-creator.

The poor man looked like a train wreck. I didn't envy his pain. It's quite a thing to admit you've been lying for someone's entire life.

"Why did you do it?" I asked suddenly. "For the sake of science?"

"No."

I blinked, surprised. "Then why?"

"I did it because I was alone, and I thought you would never leave if I- if I-"

I cursed, interrupting him. I should leave right now. I should turn around and stop putting up with this psychopath. But I didn't because he looked at me and was so incredibly broken I wanted to hold him by the shoulders to make sure he kept standing. I didn't run because, despite his idiocy, his inability to understand humanity, his obsession, he was my friend. Instead, I ground my fists into my eyes. "You're insane. Do you know that? Utterly and completely bonkers. You should be put in a mental institution. You can't just _do_ that to people!"

Holmes gulped, nodded. "I know."

"Why didn't you know _before_? Like everyone else on his ruddy planet!" Now anger filtered into my voice. "You're my _friend_ , Sherlock. And not because I feel any sort of obligation to stay with you, not because you raised me, not because you gave me things and could throw an extremely entertaining tantrum but because I _like_ you, as a _person_. I like how you know exactly how to fix something. I like that you can't make a cup of decent tea by try anyway. I like that you think writing about ash is a pursuit worthy of your time." I was rambling now, fear making my mouth rattle, "Despite the fact that you're a manic, Sherlock, you're my friend as well and I don't know what to do about it. I can't get away from you, but I can't forgive you either."

"I don't… expect you to."

I continued right on as if he hadn't spoken. "You just talk. You don't act. I never know what you mean. Do you think of me as your friend, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Really? Because if your actions say anything," I let my sentence dangle before taking a step toward him and lowering my voice to a dangerous lever. "I'm still your _experiment_."

Sherlock shook his head at the words, but he didn't attempt to argue with me. He knew that words meant nothing. He agreed.

Before, he would have argued. I squinted at him. We stared at each other for a long moment before I backed away again. With a sigh, I pursed my lips. "You're different." I murmured. "What changed?"

Sherlock shrugged, a hand rubbing his neck. "I lost my best friend."

Biting my cheek to keep from replying, I reluctantly swiveled away. I needed space. Time to think about all of this. With a final nod, I flung myself in the opposite direction, away from the only real friend I'd ever had. I was a mix of anger and relief and fear and depression. I figured that Holmes felt basically the same, but with an extra helping of _please God, just kill me and get it over with already._

I spent a long time after that wandering aimlessly. I didn't know what to do with the revelation. It terrified me. I was ecstatic. I was worried. I was worried about Sherlock. Distantly I wondered if there was a platonic version of Stockholm Syndrome and whether I was a victim. However, that was ridiculous. I was never abused by Sherlock, But I was manipulated an awful lot. Maybe that counted. Either way, I recalled the look in his eyes and it made me shiver. Sherlock was not in a good place at the moment and I didn't blame him. He was tearing himself to threads and I realized now, that he'd been doing it ever since he made me leave.

Sherlock wasn't evil. Never was. Nothing he did was out of malice or spite. He breezed past the aftermath of his actions without thinking about it. Perhaps that could be selfish, but it was unintentional. He was nieve. A child told to make a friend. And Sherlock always did take things too literally. Maybe I should have been angrier (and believe me, I was. Angry, that is). But that the same time, I wanted _so badly_ for him to want me back and now that he did, everything else fell to the sidelines slightly. Just slightly.

I still wasn't about to waltz back into his arms without proof that he wouldn't fall back into his manipulation again. I needed action, not words. Proof that he actually cared and wasn't pulling another experiment. I wasn't an idiot. To Sherlock, manipulating was like alcohol to an alcoholic; a never-ending fight against his desire.

I didn't expect to see him so soon after that first meeting. I spent a week or two stewing over my new revelation, feeling three layers of confusion, joy, and sorrow. I suspect I wouldn't have gathered the courage to visit the flat again for several months, but destiny seemed to have other plans.

I took a taxi.

I don't remember where, but I do recall why. I left my cane on the sidewalk somewhere near Bakers Street and would rather be shot than fetch it. I couldn't walk long distances, so I started paying for rides. There was something off about this taxi. The driver cracked a massive grin when I entered and I took note of his missing front tooth. "Where to, sonny?"

"Ah, _" I told him. He nodded, and I got into the backseat.

With a pulsing headache, I let my head fall against the backseat. I closed my eyes. Breathed. In and out. How strange that tortured thoughts can physically tire a man. Sherlock had to be a mess. But I pushed the thought out of my mind. I wasn't thinking about him right now. I already seemed to hallucinate about him. I kept spotting wisps of a dark coat; the back of a tall man in the distance. My imagination run wild, I supposed.

I didn't realize that something was not right until the taxi driver missed my turn. "Hey," I tapped on the glass separating us. "You were supposed to turn there."

The man said nothing. He didn't even move. Had even heard me? I tried again, louder. This time, the man's eyes flicked from the road to meet my gaze. His eyes were dead. Grey. Lifeless. He smiled.

Nervousness tingled my fingers like static. That was too strange. I'd jump out at the next stoplight. But when we finally stopped, I moved to open the door, and it clicked. Locked. I jangled the handle. Natta.

"What are you doing?" I shouted at the driver. "Let me out of here!"

The man didn't respond. He kept driving until we reached a dark school building. He coasted the taxi to a stop and got out. I noted the dark shape of a gun in his hand, and I pursed my lips. Crap.

The door opened. "Out, please," he said pleasantly.

I shivered and slowly slid through the door. It was dark outside and smelled like liquor. I could only just distinguish the man's form and the weapon in his hand. "Why are you doing this?" I whispered.

The man shrugged. I could hear his loud chewing gum. "Because I can." Oh, dear heavens, Sherlock would have a heyday with this looney. He always did like investigating a good serial killer. And this driver indeed appeared to be so.

"Walk."

Still and stubborn, I complied. My eyes darted for some sort of help. Nothing. I should have dialed 999 while I was in the car. If only I hadn't left my gun behind.

We entered the large school building, and he pulled me into a foreign lecture hall. It smelled like a wood cleaner, erasers and pencil shavings. Quickly the man turned on the lights and gestured for me to sit at a desk. I did. The driver sat across from me. He wore mismatched clothes, and his hair was slicked to the side as if licked by a dog. The driver was horribly pale, and his fingers shook. The odor of cigarettes and unwashed skin hit my nose.

I pursed my lips and stared silently at the man. He seemed to be studying me as well. "You're a soldier," he said eventually.

I blinked. "Yes. How'd you know?"

Shrugging, the man picked at his weapon before laying it on his lap. "You walk like one. Also, most of the people are hysterical by this time. You are a welcome change… What was your name?"

"John Watson."

"Well, John Watson. I appreciate your state of mind. Now shouldn't we get down to business?"

I shivered on the inside. "Are you going to kill me?"

Now the man laughed. He stood to get something out of his pocket and then placed two bottles before me. "Don't be dull. You're going to kill yourself. Quickly now, choose."

He explained the 'game' to me with practiced ease. One bottle held harmless pills. The other had pills that were lethal. Either I took my chance or he shot me in the head.

I cocked my head as he sat down. I won't lie. I considered asking him just to shoot me. I was tired as it was. It would be quick. Easy. I could run away from my problems.

Or… I could put my fate in destiny's hand and let her decide. I would walk out of here alive, with a dead serial killer, or he would leave me twitching on the ground. I would know for certain whether I was supposed to be alive in the first place. Sherlock would have snorted at these thoughts. Providence, destiny, whatever you call it, he didn't believe in any of it. But he also didn't believe in coincidence. I'm not quite sure how that worked.

I fiddled with a bottle and stood slowly. "Alright," I said, voice chalky. "I'll play your game."

A manic light filled my to-be murderer's eyes, and he stood eagerly. "Choose then," he whispered.

Very slowly, I uncapped the lid and let the weightless pill fall into my palm. I held it up to the light and my stomach twisted. Die or live. I'd test destiny right now. Was I ever meant to survive, or did Sherlock manipulate someone into existence that was supposed to die on the side of the road?

The bottle clattered from my fingertips, and ever so slowly, I raised the pill to my lips.

Three.

Two.

O-

All at once the driver jerked forward with a sharp cry. He fell to the floor and his gun dropped from his grasp. Shock froze me for a moment, but then I jerked into action. I spun the gun away from him and immediately threw the pill over my shoulder. A sort of shuttering overcame me for a half a moment. I could have just died. Right here. Right now. Because I wanted proof that I was supposed to be alive.

Well, that question was answered. My eyes darted up to the open window that the bullet sped through. There was no one in the other building across the alley. We were on the second floor. Who shot the driver?

I crouched down and stared at the man, his lips tinged with blood. Crimson spread in a lazy pool around him. "Someone just killed you for me," I murmured. "Who do you think that was?"

The man only blinked large eyes and let loose a coughing sort of sound. I turned away and noted sirens coming closer. With a sigh of relief, I slumped down in one of the chairs and waited for the police to find me.

Later, they'd set up a crime scene. I gave my report of exactly what happened.

"Do you have any idea who shot him?"

I shrugged. "No idea. I don't have any connections to…" I trailed off as a dark shadow caught my eye. I stared.

The medic turned. Saw who I was looking at. "Do you know him?"

Breaking from my trance, I shrugged. "He's an old friend. Haven't seen him in years."

The medic nodded. "He arrived with the rest of us." Her voice dropped conspiratorially. "Calls himself a consulting detective."

"Really?" I wasn't listening. My eyes were still on Sherlock. His hands stuffed in his deep pockets. Much calmer than he was before.

And his baffling eyes rested on mine. He didn't need to say anything. I knew. With a small nod to the medic, I pulled away and soon found myself in front of him, the caution tape between us. "Consulting detective?" I murmured. "Thought you were a scientist?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I dabble."

I shivered. He'd killed the driver. I was certain of it. How on Earth he knew where I was another matter, but there was only one person who would kill for me without hesitation. He must have followed me. "Are you alright?" I whispered.

Sherlock's jaw stiffened, and then he nodded. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well..." I didn't need to finish my sentence.

Sherlock's gaze jumped around for a moment before he shrugged. "He wasn't a very nice man, was he?"

Very slowly, the tension in my chest unwound. I gave him the slightest hint of a smile. "No, he wasn't."

It was a start. The beginning. I believe in actions, not words. This was the first time Sherlock made true a promise made to me. He told me a long time ago that he would keep me safe. I'd never believed him.

Until now.

Sherlock seemed determined to prove himself. To win me back.

I was determined that he would.

 **The End?**

* * *

 ** _AN: Thanks for reading folks! This is a bit darker than I usually write, so I'm not sure about that. Either way please leave a REVIEW. What do you think?_**


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